The End
by beccaleelee
Summary: Those responsible for Alex's success start dying. "When a voice called "Oy, Fox?" Ben's first thought was not 'Oh God, I need to get my gun because my cover may have been blown,' but "What are the odds that someone from my old unit lives on this street'"
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The End

**Rating:** Teen+. Seriously, the only reason it's not M is because there's no sex or anything.

**Warnings: **Somewhat graphic deaths, disturbing content matter, psychobabble in the next chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing recognizable.

**A/N**: This is my baby. I have rewritten each chapter I've completed so far at least three times to get it right, and have changed my bad guys five times until I picked one I really liked.

* * *

_We've recently received reports that a Sergeant First Class Nelson Cramer was killed during a routine training exercise last night. Apparently, a live round was mixed in with the blanks being used and the man was struck. He died from his injuries before paramedics could reach the scene. _

A Sergeant in Brecon Beacons stood overlooking the men hauling themselves over the most difficult obstacle course. He snorted to himself as one of them fell from a wall and landed face first in the mud with a yelp of pain. Pathetic. A fourteen year old could do better—no, scratch that: a fourteen year old _had_ done better.

"Raven!" he barked, stalking over to the soldier. "Are you trying to make a mockery of this camp? I fear the day that you take command of any operation requiring any skill whatsoever, which I doubt will ever happen. But if such an atrocity does occur, be sure to give me ample warning to retreat from whatever continent is unfortunate enough to be holding you at the time of said atrocity!"

The other man nodded once, barking "Yes, Sir!" The Sergeant's eyes narrowed for while the reply had been the only proper one, it had been said with an almost mutinous twist of his lips.

"You will stay on this course until I say otherwise, no matter how many times you complete it." Raven's jaw clenched convulsively at the, admittedly harsh, punishment but the Sergeant ignored it magnanimously before continuing. "Perhaps the repetition will drive the concept of balance into your thick skull," here he paused and studied Raven skeptically. "Or not."

With that he turned abruptly on his heel and stepped away listening for the sound of the soldier turning back to the course. He nodded to himself: accepting punishment without—verbal—protest. Not too shabby for a new guy.

* * *

The sun had set well before the Sergeant returned to the obstacle course to check on Raven. He was still running along the track, and as the Sergeant watched he hauled himself up and over the wall that had given him difficulty before.

"Raven!" called the Sergeant when the man had completed another full circuit, waving him over.

Raven approached quickly before stopping and saying "Sir," careful to keep any inflection out of his voice so that it could be interpreted as either a statement—"Hello Sir, I'm so glad you stopped by to see me whilst I suffer"—or a question—"Hello Sir, can I please stop running now? It's just that my arms and legs may fall off in a moment."

"You've done well, Raven," the Sergeant replied. "I see a marked improvement, however slight. You may return to your hut." Raven saluted and the Sergeant returned the gesture before turning and walking away.

"Sir?" Raven's voice caused the Sergeant to freeze. There was a note of…something in it, something that did not bode well for him.

He turned to look at his soldier immediately saw the silenced pistol aimed towards him. "You asked for warning about when I was put in an operation involving skill? Here's your warning," he fired one shot into the Sergeant's right knee. The older man let out a strangled scream of pure agony before crumpling to the ground and clutching his leg. "And here's the operation," the second shot tore his head, as did the third, and fourth, and fifth.

Raven stared down at the gory mess at his feet. Brain matter was dripping down the dead man's face, the gray pieces mixing with the red blood. Perhaps Raven had gotten a little carried away while completing his task. He shrugged. No point in worrying about it so long as the job was done.

Someone may have heard that scream, so it was time for him to leave. He turned and walked away, leaving the mess behind him: let someone else clean it up. When he reached the guarded gate, he merely held out the pilfered badge and papers and was released. They even lent him a car for all his troubles.

No one had heard the scream, or if they had they had passed it off as a joke or a part of training: it wouldn't have been the first time. Even so, barely twenty minutes had passed before another new recruit stumbled across the remains of his Commanding Officer.

He was just a kid, was barely old enough to be in the camp, and he took one look at the bloody body and puked up every meal he had ever eaten onto the corpse's chest. He then took off at a sprint, screaming for someone, _anyone_, to get out there right now, damn it.

The MPs who grabbed him, effectively halting his panicked race tried to understand what the boy was trying to tell them but he just gabbled incoherently, yelling that "He was lying on the ground. Just lying there. I threw up on him, and he just kept lying there!"

He tried to pull free of the restraining hands, but was met instead with a sharp jab. He stared down at the syringe being pulled away from his arm by a medic in confusion. Why had they done that? He needed to tell them where the Sergeant was. He needed to tell them about the man's head. He retched again, going limp in the MPs arms and feeling himself lifted into the air.

By the time a patrol found the body, Raven was long gone and the only soldier found missing went by the name Mike Devereaux. This would have been a valuable lead, except that Mike Devereaux was found dead in the address recorded in his files, and, judging by the state of the body, had been in that state for weeks.

* * *

_In local news, a man was killed in an explosion whilst in his yard with his dog._ _Authorities have informed us that this tragedy was caused by a septic tank malfunction in the man's yard caused by improper venting and the anaerobic decomposition of the solids. We have been asked to assure our viewers that there is no reason to fear any similar explosions. Some of our viewers have contacted us out of fear that this was a terrorist attack, but we can assure you all that this is not the case._

* * *

Maggie stood in her yard just inside her special collar's boundary with her head cocked to one side in confusion. She was watching the two Big Boys stepping into her yard. She growled low in her throat: Big Boys weren't allowed in her yard without her owner. By Girls came sometimes and Little Boys and Girls ran in to play ball if they were passing by, but Big Boys never came alone.

When the Big Boys were nearly upon her, Maggie tensed and prepared to let out an enormous bark. But then she stilled as one of them held out a treat. Maggie wagged her tail hesitantly, almost hopefully, as the other Big Boy glanced worriedly at her master's house.

The Big Boy with the treat gestured for her to sit—the same sign her master used—and Maggie's rump hit the ground without pause. He continued to dangle the treat in the air just out of her reach. The other Big Boy slid carefully toward her and took off her special collar.

Maggie stopped wagging her tail in concern: she couldn't have her special collar off outside if her leash wasn't on instead. It was_ obviously_ against the rules and the Big Boys should_ know_ that. She growled at the offending Boy, ordering him to follow the rules and give it back.

Her attention was then diverted by the treat as the Boy made a clicking noise. Maggie tried to mimic it but her tongue just lolled out of her mouth with a happy little pant. They stayed like that for a while, one Boy fiddling with the special collar and putting something inside, the other Boy flicking his eyes between the still dark house and the dog, Maggie staring at the treat while trying to inch forwards without her bottom ever actually leaving the ground.

Finally, her collar was replaced and both Boys stepped quickly across the invisible line separating Maggie from the street and threw the biscuit to her. Her teeth snapped shut on air, of course, and she had to sniff around the grass for a bit before finding the morsel and devouring it.

By that time her new friends were walking away keeping abreast to her yard but keeping beyond the boundary. She chased after them with the intention of walking parallel to them for as long as she was able. Instead, she tripped over her soccer ball.

She barked at it in irritation—didn't the silly thing know to stay out of her way?—and head butted it angrily. It rolled away and she stalked over to it and hit it again because, really, it shouldn't try to run away like that. It just rolled away again in response, the coward. She barked in exasperation and proceeded to chase the stupid ball all about the yard.

* * *

When the circle in the sky had been up for a good while her master opened the door, called her name, and held up the leash. She bounded toward him, stopping to chase her tail when it thwacked her side too many times. Eventually she found herself seated before him, panting softly.

As her master crouched before her to pet her and switch from the special collar to the leash, Maggie became aware of an annoying high pitched beeping. She barked once to tell it to hush. If the following explosion hadn't killed her and her master immediately she would have wondered how her simple bark could be so loud and make so much light.

By the time the emergency crew had arrived at the house there were very few pieces of either the dog Maggie or her owner, one Mr. Smithers according to their records, left to pick up. It made the whole affair a little easier to clean up: no nasty organs or detached limbs to scoop up.

* * *

_Panicked residents of a local suburb called the police after hearing shots fired outside their houses. The police operators assured their callers that they had merely heard a scheduled training exercise taking place and that no live rounds were fired. The station's spokesman has offered his apologies to these people for not providing warning: he has stated that the notices must have been lost in transit. One witness claims to have looked outside her window and says that she saw a man lying in the street, but this story has not been confirmed. _

_

* * *

_

On a suburban street just outside of Liverpool, Ben Daniels jogged at a steady pace. Although he had been trained not to keep a patterned schedule he had found that the only time he could jog in peace was at this time each day. He wasn't a complete idiot, however, and kept a 9 millimeter handgun tucked in the waistband of his sweats, within grabbing distance but hidden from the prying eyes of civilians by his shirt.

It's possible that the gun gave him a false sense of security, for when a deep voice called "Oy, Fox?" from across the street Ben's first thought was not "Oh God, I need to get my gun because my cover may have been blown," but instead "What are the odds that someone from my old unit lives on this street?"

He stopped and turned towards the voice, still bouncing in place to keep his rhythm, and raised a hand in greeting. His hand was still stretched out in front of him when he felt the first bullet strike him in the chest. Through the blinding pain he felt himself topple over and upon hitting the pavement lay stunned for a moment.

Alright, not one of his training unit then. He struggled to pull his gun out from beneath him as he heard footsteps approaching. The shooter appeared like a phantom over Ben's prone body, the gun now leveled at his forehead. There was no time to get his own gun out.

Ben struck out with both feet, sweeping the man's legs out from under him. He hit the ground like a felled tree, cracking his head against the pavement, giving Ben time to snag both guns and struggle to his feet.

He hesitated for a second: the man was down, but if Ben had turned the tables on him he could just as easily flip them back. But then, it was against the code of manly warfare to strike an unarmed opponent. Ben mentally shrugged, and then delivered a mighty kick to the side of his attacker's head. His chest bloody hurt.

After making sure that the other man was well and truly unconscious, Ben sat on his stomach (as an extra precaution, not because he wanted the man to have a bruise the shape of his butt when he woke up) and yanked out his phone. He hit the speed dial, and when a stern voice answered he snapped "Get me Alan Blunt."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**A/N: Sorry, I needed a break from this site for a while so I retreated to LJ and delved into a new fandom. But now I'm back with an update. Yay…ish. Lots of talking in this one, but it's necessary. Make sure you're paying attention. See if you can figure out what's going on first!**

**

* * *

**

"One, or even two, of these attacks would have been random or perhaps an attempt to exact revenge on some entire organization, but together this can only be seen as a series of assassinations focused around Alex Rider."

Alan Blunt stared at his Deputy Head and said mildly, "I fail to follow your logic."

Mrs. Jones folded her hands neatly in her lap before explaining. "If Smithers and Daniels had been the only victims, we could assume that this was an attack on MI6. If Sergeant Cramer and Daniels had been the sole victims, this could merely be random attacks against those associated with Brecon Beacons."

"That last makes little sense," Blunt interrupted. "Cramer was in the camp and Daniels miles away. If the attacker wanted to hurt the SAS they would have simply destroyed the camp. He would have undoubtedly been able to do so: he got in easily, moved about freely, and exited without contest. Why not plant explosives and be done with it? And why go after a man no longer affiliated with either Brecon Beacons or the SAS?"

Jones nodded. "I agree. But the first option, that MI6 as a whole is the target, makes just as little sense."

"Go on."

"Well," she continued. "Why would our attackers go after Daniels? The attack on Smithers makes sense—he is an important part of our work here—but Daniels is relatively new: he has only been with us for three years. He's good at what he does, but not good enough to warrant an assassination attempt."

"Unless his assailant held a personal grudge," Blunt retorted.

"Not likely. The man we have in custody, Cathal Foley according to his license, has no record. Furthermore, he's Irish and Daniels has had no run-ins with any Irish parties."

Blunt nodded slowly. "And if it had been a grudge match they wouldn't have gone after Smithers. But you have yet to explain how Alex is involved in any of this."

Mrs. Jones shrugged before answering. "It's a tenuous link at best, but all the victims had some role in shaping Alex as an agent." When the man seated across from her said nothing, she continued. "The connection with Smithers is obvious: Alex wouldn't have made it through any of his missions without the devices he developed. Cramer was the man in charge of Alex's training at Brecon Beacons. Daniels was a member of Alex's training unit, and, of course, he has saved Alex's life several times both before and after Alex began working for us again."

"You're right: that is a tenuous connection. Smithers provided tools to countless agents, Cramer trained countless men, and Daniels…" he stopped as realization dawned.

Jones nodded once. "Daniels is the key. He has worked alone on every one of his assignments except those involving Alex. No other agent has had enough contact with him to be the ultimate target."

"But Alex Rider has not been involved in any Irish affairs either. Ian Rider clashed with the IRA once, but they never knew his name and I doubt they would care enough to go after his nephew so many years later." Blunt snapped with the slightest hint of irritation creeping into his voice, a sure sign that, had he been anyone but himself, he would have been throwing the nearest lamp at the woman's head.

He was answered with a shrug. "Perhaps we've been wrong in following the Irish connection—"

"Isn't the Irish connection the main argument as to why Daniels wasn't the ultimate target?" Blunt interjected.

"If I may interrupt?" The two debaters turned to look at the woman standing in the doorway. Blunt tried to place her: short black hair, big nose, unlevel eyes. He knew he had seen her before but—

"Katherine Buccholz," she said flatly. "I am the profiler assigned to these attacks."

Blunt nodded and gestured for her to enter. The moment the door swung shut behind her she began to speak. "To answer your question, Mr. Blunt, you may dismiss Agent Daniels as the intended target for the sole reason that he was attacked at all."

She stopped speaking abruptly, as though that should explain everything. "Explain," Blunt ordered.

Buccholz gave a long-suffering sigh before continuing, "My sister devoted her life to understanding cases like this. Thanks, to her I know that the group responsible for these attacks does not wish to kill their ultimate target: they fear that doing so will give him more power."

"By making a martyr of him?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"Exactly. This is evident in the fact that they have killed three men with no special links to each other. In fact, Cramer never met Smithers so there can be no direct link between them."

"Furthermore," she went on. "The attacks were relatively straightforward. Mr. Smithers was killed in an explosion: loud and obvious, but quick and clean and he was killed instantly. If Agent Daniels had not had such quick reflexes, the bullet would likely have struck his heart and would have killed him either instantly or at least very quickly."

"But Cramer was shot repeatedly. His attacker intended for him to suffer," Mr. Blunt objected.

"Our people spoke to others at the camp," Mrs. Jones replied. "This Raven character who has gone missing was ridiculed by the Sergeant the day of the attack."

"Yes," Buccholz agreed. "It's possible that the killer was meant to be as quick as possible and make the death as painless as the others, but acted as he did because of the insult he was given."

"But the person responsible wanted someone to know why these men were specifically targeted," she continued.

"How do you mean?" asked Blunt.

"Cramer was killed in the training camp. He left the camp regularly in order to attend meetings with his COs and recruitment officers. At any of these times he would have been an infinitely easier target. His killer wanted it clear that he died because of Brecon Beacons."

Buccholz took a breath before continuing, "Smithers was killed in an explosion. You both know, of course, that he had monitoring systems in place to alert him of any explosives within twenty feet of his house. His killer must have been able to block the guard-systems from picking up the signal of the remote detonator. He wanted to pass on a message: that Smithers's 'gadgets' were his downfall. They didn't save his life and were presumably the reason he was targeted."

"That's all well and good, despite sounding like a cheap television thriller," Blunt interrupted. "But Daniels was attacked while jogging. Following your logic, he was targeted for liking exercise too much."

Buccholz nodded, "That's where it gets rather abstract. Daniels reported that his assailant knew his codename from training. So he was possibly attacked simply because of his old unit or his presence at Brecon Beacons."

"If that's the case then all of K-Unit may be targeted," Mrs. Jones protested.

Agent Buccholz raised a hand, "That's what I thought until I saw where he had been shot: he was standing in front of a boat in someone's driveway. The attackers intended to get their point across and they didn't care how obscure that message was."

She looked at them expectantly and, seeing only blank faces, sighed again. "Agent Daniels was shot on a ship whilst saving Alex Rider's life, was he not?"

* * *

"So, Foley got himself caught, did he?" asked Wedloga.

"I told you not to trust him," said Scericge with a shrug, tucking her hair neatly behind her ear. "He's always been an idiot."

"Why was he carrying his license, for God's sake?"

"Like I said: he's an idiot."

"You'll deal with the situation?"

"It's already done."

* * *

_One Mister Cathal Foley, accused of attempted murder, died in his cell last night from a heart attack. At this time, it is unclear of whether there was anything that could have been done to prevent his death, but we have been assured that an investigation will be launched and, if necessary, reforms will be made._

It took five men four hours to clean all the blood out of Foley's cell.


End file.
